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HILLSBORO IN THE WAR 



HILLSBORO IN 
THE WAR 

RICHARD D. WARE 




BOSTON 

THE GORHAM PRESS 

1917 



Copyright, 191 7, by Richard D. Ware 

— J* ^ 

All Rights Reserved Q^p Oj ,1 



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The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 

QC'i 27 1917 
©GI.A476792 #/j6au# 



The only Autocrat whose mandates were ever 
grateful to the people of these United Democra- 
cies once declared that Boston was not a place 
but a state of mind. It might be said equally well 
of Hillsboro. The county and the state of mind 
were both established when the Scotch-Irish who 
had founded the Londonderry settlement drifted 
farther west into the hills and dug themselves in. 
They have never been dug out again. Newcomers 
from all countries outnumber their descendants, 
but the spirit of the Londonderry men still speaks. 
And so speaks Hillsboro. Or is silent. These 
men or their sons left the Hillsboro settlements 
in turn and went still farther into the western 
country, and wherever they went, the state of 
mind went with them and still persists. 

Those Scotch-Irish took everything hard. They 
took their thinking hard. They were stubborn 
men, and not being wont to yield, insisted that 
facts be proved facts before they yielded to their 
stubbornness. Their minds were clear visioned in 
simplicity, concrete, keen to cut away the veneer 
of sham and sharp to prick the bladder of hifalu- 
tin. They were men who dwelt upon and valued 
past experience. They were slow to leap at the 
New This and the New That dangled before 
them. If the merit of those things was proved 
they became facts and were accepted as such. 



In those days a great deal of men's thinking 
was on things political, and they took their poli- 
tics hard. Hillsboro still does. Republicans are 
Lincoln Republicans. Democrats are Jacksonian 
Democrats, not Jeffersonian nor Christian Science 
Democrats. 

They took their daily labors hard, in that noth- 
ing was too hard to be undertaken and put 
through. 

They took their fighting hard. Never were 
more tenacious and bitter fighters. In their minds, 
to fight was to beat up the enemy, private or public, 
to such degree as might be necessary to prove to 
him that he was beaten, and then make him do 
what he had been unwilling to do unbeaten. "Beat 
him first" was "Safety First" in those days of In- 
dians, Hessians and Red Coats, and the Hessians 
are still with us. 

Most of the subjects which follow have to do with 
the Hillsboro state of mind as to facts appearing 'in 
the early days of the war after this country entered 
it. 

A few of them have to do with fancies of my 
own. 

As to form, why should not all verse be called 
"free"? No one ever buys it. 

Why, therefore, while the air is full of Freedom 
and its flags, drum beats, shells, bullets, shrieks, 
groans and other emblems, shall not this great 
4 



Democracy make all verse and song free, along 
with its justice, health and pursuit of happiness? 
It would cost but little in these days of billions. 

R. D. W. 

Amherst, New Hampshire, 

August, 191 7. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

All the World's at War n 

The Pigeons 13 

The Censors 19 

The Trenches 25 

The War Hoe 27 

Moth Nests 30 

The Railroad Commissioners 32 

At the Store 37 

The Milk Man 43 

An Aged Man 46 

The Phrasemakers 53 

Mr. Hoover 56 

The Ministers 59 

The Camps 66 

The Garbage Pail 70 

The Exemption Boards 73 

The Judges 80 



HILLSBORO IN THE WAR 



ALL THE WORLD'S AT WAR 

And all the iron mongery, 

Castings and forgings, things mechanical, 
The whole vast enginery 

Of cogs and toggles, wires, cranks and wheels 
Which man has reared, a soulless Frankenstein, 

Now turns to rend him and destroy. 
A war has seven stages. First the typewriter 

Clicking and clacking off the fateful word 
Some autocrat has spoken as his will; 

And then the printing press with rumbling roar 
Spreading the printed word on broadcast page 

To rouse the honor of the land to make it good. 
Then the trip hammers crash on clanging steel 

Forging great billets for the mighty guns 
Which in their turn shall blast abroad the word 

Into the brains and bodies of the foe. 
And then the whirling, never-ceasing lathes 

Turning the shells to bear aloft the word, 
Affronting God's own heavens with their screams. 

Then steaming vats and bubbling retorts 
Simmer and surge with fierce reactions strained 

From which are born explosives for the guns 
and shells. 
The sixth stage shifts into the offices and counting 
rooms 

Of money changers, men with things for sale, 
contractors, 

II 



Where silently, well oiled, wheels within wheels 
Make the machine of Business move on 

In subtle swift accomplishment. Then last of all 
Upon the roll of martial mechanisms, 

The Government like car of Juggernaut appears, 
Slow, creaking, rusty, wrenched, 

But irresistible. 



12 



THE PIGEONS 

There were some pigeon-holes beneath the eaves 

Which led into the loft within the barn, 
So, that they might fulfill their obvious purpose 
there, 

I got some pigeons, to go in and out those holes, 
And sit upon the ridgepole, cooingly, 

Or trot about in love chase in the yard. 
Six loving pairs they were, 

Fast wedded severally 
Or so the vendor said, 

And white as snow, 
So that they well might seem 

Another apostolic twelve 
In robes immaculate ; 

Emblems of peace, 
Domestic love 

And gentleness. 
Put not one's utter trust 

In emblems! 
They're all right till the britchin' breaks 

And then — 
But let us to our doves. 

Beyond all things I wished to watch them fly, 
Gleaming and flashing in the summer sun 

Or like white snow flakes out of winter skies, 
But this I learned 

Was not to be as yet, 

13 



For such was their instinctive love of home 

That back to Melrose 
They would wing their way 

Assuredly, 
If soon let loose 

Just as that song bird 
The fair Geraldine 

Is wont at times to flit 
To her home town and theirs 

For rest and peace 
From tortured Toscas and bruised Butterflies. 

So they were close confined up in the loft 
And left to their devices, 

Which were such 
That when came spring I found 

A flock of fifty 
Perching on the beams, 

Grunting and growling like dogs over bones, 
Or uttering a cry which sounds more like 

"Kruk-kruk-ker-roo, 
Wuk-wuk" 

Than anything, 
And which I'm sure must mean 

"You are the only girl I ever loved." 
So first I learned that pigeons do not coo. 

Then 
That for progenitive accomplishment 

The hare's a tortoise to them, 
While as to plighted troth 
14 



A sailor of the Seven Seas 
Each sea with seven ports of call 

And at each port 
Seven syren sweethearts 

Waiting watchfully 
Is slothful laggard in the lists of love 

Compared to one of these 
Sweet ruffians. 

And with these appetites 
Were more. 

Such gluttons of the trough 
Swine never were, 

Pushing and crowding, 
Strong elbowing the weak, 

Tossing and wasting what they did not gorge. 
Great guzzlers too they were. 

The legend of the dove 
Began to totter 

On its pedestal. 
Then came a day 

When two fat squabs 
From pulpy nakedness 

In parti-colored garb appeared, 
In lieu of the white habit of the flock. 

Up strutted in cold blood 
A squad 

Of bull-necked executioners 
And beat them on the head 

And slew them. 

15 



So I learned that doves 

Were murderers. 
In spite of crimes 

I sought to set them free, 
So one bright day in June 

I let them loose. 
Out-swarming from the holes they came 

And making swift survey, 
Into the air they swept, 

Wheeling, circling, 
Flashing in the sun, 

The rushing of the swooping wings 
Like wind among the pines. 

Then with eyes satisfied 
I went down to the field. 

At noon returning, work there done, 
From the young garden by the barn 

Up leaped the flock 
Aloft to nearby roof 

And looked down on the havoc they had made. 
Young beets pulled up; 

Young cauliflowers broke; 
Young cabbages laid low upon the ground. 

Such slaughter of the innocent 
There had not been 

Since Pharaoh's time. 
Seed beds with flowering plants 

Were tramped and torn; 



16 



Green heads of lettuce wilted in the sun 

Leaves scissored small ; 
Young rosebushes, inedible, 

Stood stark and stripped. 
So had the gentle doves come down 

Like the Assyrian 
Upon the fold, 

And so when they went up that night 
They stayed there 

Behind bars. 
That settled the sweet legend of the dove. 

Then came the war abroad, 
And as I read 

How the invaders of a peaceful land 
Had roared and blasphemed, 

Ravished, slain, 
And laid it waste, 

All these things seemed 
Familiar to the mind ; 

And then it turned 
To understanding of the Doves, — 

Their whole Kultur 
Was German! 

In cynic mood 
And thought of the efficiency 

That nation sought 
On such affairs as these 

I wrote — 



17 



Back to the kennel with the Dogs of War. 

Let the fierce brutes lie growling in their lair. 
Throw wide the dove cotes to the winged hosts 

And loose them hurtling through the air. 
Bred murderous by Man, fly forth, 

Ungentled, turned to harpies by his will ; 
His newest allies in his lust of war, 

And join the vultures where they sate their fill. 
Would that thy wings still greater weight might 
waft 

Of dire destruction from the sky to launch; 
No more to bear as sign of love and peace 

The futile burden of the olive branch. 
Thy brighter iris smear with pestilence 

And loose disease and death along thy path; 
God's messenger turned fiend in whited plumage 

To be the engine of Man's bestial wrath. 
Bear traitrous messages from camps beleaguered, 

Bear heartbreak to the stricken ones afar; 
Such are they tasks, thou bird of evil omen 

When men are at their horrid work of war. 

And soon, 

As if in answer to a prophecy, 
Der Taube 

Swept across the sky. 



18 



THE CENSORS 

Freedom shrieked ; 

War howled, 
And with its dogs let loose 

An horde of poetasters rushed 
With streaming fountain pens in hand 

Fine frenzied from their lairs. 
There songs of hate were sung; 

Here dirges for the dead; 
Now paeans of Victory resound; 

Now hymns of Peace without it; 
Epithalamia of war-won brides; 

The lullabies of martial infants crooned; 
No theme nor reason was too trite for rhyme, 

No rhyme unreasonable in stress of war, 
While in an undertone of lawless ecstasy 

The rhythmic beat of free verse boomed and 
growled 
Like tom-toms from the Niger's ebon shades. 

World wide contagion raged. 
Peers, prelates, plumbers, all became infect. 

Wealth could not buy immunity. 
It fattened on the poor. 

There was no sanctuary 
On shore nor in the hills. 

No hamlet was too small 
To miss a visitation of the plague. 

The cities reeked with it. 
19 



No home of simple folk or merchant prince 

Might mark its lintel for its passover, 
And even well screened sanitaria 

Failed utterly to stay the deadly germs. 
I thought at first that certainly my place 

Beneath the sun up here in Hillsboro 
With air and water pure would sterilize 

The dread bacilli if they wafted here. 
But no, and thus it came about. 

At the beginnings of the war 
The cabled tidings bore 

Constant quotations of the Kaiser's words, 
And they had most to do 

With murderous mandates he addressed to God 
And praises for his own beloved son 

And heir, who, if truth be not dead, 
Is of the crew of royal scalawags 

And skunks 
The worst. 

Then came a battle on the Prince's front 
And to the son, now blooded, there was sent 

By the proud father as his gift 
The Iron Cross. 

I read of this beneath a clear blue sky, 
Sweet scented breezes drifting through the fields, 

No thought of danger near. 
Then the next instant, something in my brain 

Began to click, and my turn too had come. 
The symptoms were acute. There had to be 
20 



Blood letting or some purifying flux 
To ease the fever, so I seized a pen 

And purged my mind free of its distillate. 



THE SECOND IN COMMAND 

Sent the General Commanding to his corps com- 
mander, 

God, 
His orders from headquarters for the long well 
plotted fight: 
"Support our forward column until we break their 
line ; 
Then let thy rod and staff descend and smite!" 

Sent the General Commanding to his corps com- 
mander, 

God, 
A bi-plane with a message through the racked 
and reeking air: 
"The Count and I go murdering as soon as it is 
night; 
See to it that the wind to-night is fair." 

Sent the General Commanding to his corps com- 
mander, 

God, 

21 



An uhlan with a message out of screaming 
shrieking hell : 
"My Son has gained his battle and has won the 
Iron Cross. 

See to it that your son deserves as well!" 
The direst symptom of this new disease 

Is that as one succumbs he grows a-thirst 
To spread it. 

And so to one of those 
Who guard the freedom of the people's speech 

Beneath the aegis of the printed page 
With two editions daily, to say naught 

Of watchful "extras" turning day to night 
Before its close, and on the seventh day 

A monstrous parti-colored mass 
Of printed pulp as final bulwark raised, 

To one of these I say I took my lines 
And stood with trembling knees the while he read. 

"Fine! Bully! We must sure use this. 
Great stuff; it's got the punch and lots of pep. 

That ought to make the Hyphens take a think 
And see where they get off at; here, Jim, quick, 

Take this right up to Mr. Clipping's room — 
He has to pass on things like this, you know." 

And so we talked and passed the time of day 
Until young Jim came back with note in hand. 

The editor perused the message brought. 
"Well, I'll be — hum — I never thought of that; 

I guess he's right; he says it wouldn't do." 
22 



And handing me the screed from higher up 

I read that heavy advertising came 
From sundry firms with harsh Teutonic names 

And that the Romish priesthood would declare 
The lines anathema. 

"So there you see," he said, 
"What we are up against." 

And as I looked I saw 
The aegis rent by stealthy foes within 

The city's walls, with clinking gold in hand 
Instead of daggers drawn, 

To rot its vitals through 
Instead of stabbing them. 

So back to Hillsboro went the lines 
Innocuous, and in a drawer 

They lay in rural quietude 
Until one day 

A friend with pro-Alliance in his soul 
Turned in the yard to "set a spell" and talk; 

And as we talked some phrasement gave the cue 
To let him read the lines, and so he did. 

"By thunder, I must see this thing in print 
And I know just the place to take it, too. 

One of the papers gets out every week 
A commentary covering the war 

In all its phases, 
Battles lost and won, 

Diplomacies, things written and things said ; 
I know the man who has it all in hand 

And this is just the sort of thing he'd want." 
23 



And so the lines went out into the world 

A second time to seek to have their say. 
Time moved along and yet no loud outcry 

Arose from outraged Teuton or from priest 
aghast 
Up from the city to the quiet hills, 

And so, 
I wrote a letter of inquiry to ask 

Had yet the lines been used or would they be. 
No answer. With an interval 

I wrote again. 
Again the man of war 

Deigned not to make reply 
And must have pocketed 

The stamp from a directed envelope 
I put inside my own in hopes to rouse 

His better nature from its lethargy. 
A third time sent and once more answer came 

As when a forest tree 
Comes crashing down 

With no one by to hear it. 
Then I knew 

That now the deed was done; 
One more birth-strangled babe 

Had gasped its life away 
Beneath the censor's hand. 

But laid its ghost was not, 
And like the Phoenix from a waste basket 

Once more those lines rise up 
To haunt 'em. 

24 



THE TRENCHES 

Below a New England hillside 

The broad hay meadows lie, 
Sour and dank in the old time days; 

By toil turned sweet and dry. 
The old time men fought for them 

And held against the foe 
With trenches dug in the battleground 

To meet the freshet's flow. 

First came the swaying oxen 

Tugging against the plow, 
Cutting the deep black furrows 

Into the sodden slough. 
Followed the strength of rugged men 

With mattock, bill and spade, 
Deepening wide through the peat and muck 

On the trail the plowshare laid. 

And their trenches gained the victory 

For those men who had worked and willed, 
Those men who feared not honest toil 

And who honored the soil they tilled. 
The flags and rushes died away; 

Up sprang the lush green sward 
And righteously the conquerors 

Came into their reward. 
25 



Below a Belgian hillside 

Still other meadows lie ; 
Here too are lines of trenches 

And upturned earth banked high. 
Here too are marks upon the sward 

The plowshare might have drawn 
But from these entrenched meadows 

All light and life are gone. 

Those furrows bursting shells have plowed 

Death's harvest to prepare. 
The green has turned to ashen gray 

Bleached by the poisoned air. 
Down through the earth those trenches drain 

The heart's blood of the land 
That dared maintain its honor 

Against the Iron Hand. 

Honored throughout the ages 

Those scars shall still endure. 
For in those blood-stained trenches 

The right still lives, secure. 
But from each shell-plowed furrow 

A nation without a name 
Shall reap its awful harvest 

Of hate, disgrace and shame. 



26 



THE WAR HOE 

Aroused by the alarm before the sun 

Had tinged the sky with dawn, 

The veteran 

Cut short his dream of peace 

And roused to consciousness. 

Full well he knew 

How the efficient crafty foe, 

All laws, humanities ignored, 

Was creeping on his trenches, 

For weeds and vermin work 

While men do sleep. 

Firstly he girded up his loins, 

Which up in Hillsboro means 

Put on his pants. 

And then, descending to the commissariat, 

Attended to the needs 

The inner man made known; 

Then seizing his war hoe with horny hand 

He sallied forth invasion to repel. 

The clash came swift. 
An outpost of black crows 
He put to flight 

With gallant charge in flank across the field 
Where corn was up, and from his path 
A woodchuck scuttled for his dug-out lair. 
Him he pursued with shouts and brandished blade 
27 



Until, forgetful of the wire entanglement 

Which after many fees and days of law 

Now marked his neighbor's acres from his own, 

He dashed thereon, and there became impaled. 

His wounds were slight and honorable, — 

In front. 

So after taking breath and stock 

Of scratch and puncture, rent and tear to gear, 

He turned back to the trenches over-run, 

Content to put the enemy to rout. 

There found he work for his good blade, 

His great war hoe new purchased at the store 

When the whole nation, mad for war, 

Surged with the tide of dire preparedness 

Till even the hills of Hillsboro convulsed 

As with the throes of Vulcan at his bonds. 

Platoons of pigweed, companies of dock, 
Witchgrass and sorrel in battalions ranged; 
Reserves of serried regiments 
Of murderous unnamed auxiliaries 
Stood there embattled with the corn. 
He raised his battle cry and trusty steel, 
And plunged into the thickest of the fray. 
All day the battle raged; 
But when the whistle blew 
Down at the new saw mill at five o'clock, 
He stood there victor on the stricken field, 
The dead and dying prostrate at his feet. 
28 



Then shouldering his trenchant hoe once more 
He homeward turned, aweary of the war. 
The dust of battle at the kitchen sink removed, 
He sought well-earned refreshment at his board. 
Then cut a plug and filled the blackened pipe; 
Uplifted stockinged feet to nearby chair; 
Drew close the lamp and spread the weekly sheet; 
Then, taking out his teeth for ease complete, 
And laying them upon the checkered cloth, 
He muttered to himself: 

"Let there be Peace." 



29 



MOTH NESTS 

I walked among my trees to-day 

With can of creosote and brush in hand 

With which to smear 

The nests the gypsy moths had left 

Last fall, dull white excrescences 

Glued fast to under side of limb 

Or on the sunny side of trunk, 

In devilish preparedness for spring. 

When first I saw the pallid leprous mark 

Upon a plum tree bursting into bud, 

I felt the meaning of the new war word, 

To "strafe" what one dislikes exceedingly, 

And with a smear of sticky, dark brown stink 

I strafed that whited sepulchre forthwith. 

The day was warm, and as the buds had swelled 

So had that vermin pesthouse gravid grown 

With the vile horde that squirmed within its tent 

To which to live meant only to destroy. 

Perhaps the war word started up the train 

Of thought that sometimes crackles from the 

tongue 
In words, for as I smeared 
I heard that I had said, 
"So much for you, Zeebrugge," 
And, pleased with what I heard, 
I smeared again. 
Cuxhaven got it next 

30 



And then Heligoland, 

Then Wilhelmshaven, here a double dose; 

The same for Kiel, a nest that fairly writhed 

With pent-up pestilence and death to life. 

But there were far more nests than I had names 

In my geography, and so 

The game must end before the work was done. 

And then I thought 

How bully it would be 

If even now 

The God to whom all kindly peoples pray 

Would get it in for that Divine Pervert 

With "Made in Germany" stencilled on h 

throne, 
Just as the old time gods of Greece and Rome 
Took up the battles of their votaries, 
And with the vials of His wrath in hand 
Uncork His chemicals upon those nests 
And slay those other vermin in their slime. 



31 



THE RAILROAD COMMISSIONERS 

Farm labor's scarcer than hens' teeth up here 

In Hillsboro 
And them as has a hired man 

Just cosset him, I tell you what. 
But every day or so we find we've got 

All unbeknownst, 
A brand new public servant. 

Just where the servitude comes in for him 
We find it hard to see, 

For the first upshot of the critter comes 
With something that he tells us 

We have got to do 
Or be took out behind the barn and shot 

At sunrise. 
But who they be or where they come from 

We don't know. 
We never saw 'em, 

Much less voted for the likes of them 
To rule us. 

We looked up one, and far as we could learn, 
He'd just been hauled out from some woodchuck 
hole 

Somewhere in the great United States 
To sit beneath the Democratic sun 

In cabinet or bureau or commode, — 
Some kind of office furniture it was, 

I don't remember which, — 
32 



And there he sat, bedazzled and half blind, 

And crowbars couldn't pry him off his job. 
Yet now they tell us there's more comin' still 

As soon as the whole business of this war 
Lock, stock, and barrel, 

All gets put 
Into one pair of hands. 

Great God Almighty! 
There's no hands but His 

Can take a holt on such a job as that 
And keep it! 

No matter who the man is 
He must do the work 

Though called his own 
Through other men. 

And who will they be? 
No one knows. 

But up in Hillsboro we know 
They've hauled out chucks enough 

The way things lay. 
Some of the boys down to the store last night 

Allowed 
One lot o' public servants wa'n't so bad, — 

The Railroad fellers, for the evenin' paper said 
As how they had decided, 

After settin' on it 
About three weeks, — 

Just the same time it takes a settin' hen 
To do her job — 

33 



That we could have some coal 
To keep school buildin's warm 

And heat the kitchen stove 
Come winter, 

So far as they's concerned, 
If we would find the cars 

And haul 'em up. 
Don't sound so big, but when you come to think — 

You know those cards you see 
Stuck up in offices 

With "Do it now" writ on 'em ; 
Well, public servants' cards all say 

"It Can't Be Done." 
So seein's how the Railroaders had showed 

They'd got some guts 
Tucked in 'em somewhere, 

We thought of a few things right in their line 
To put up to 'em. 

First let 'em scrap 
Ail narrow gauge and one-track minds 

That make obstruction on the right o' way, 
Makin' no time themselves and in the road 

So nothin' else can pass 'em. 
Make everything broad gauge and double track 

So when some new ideas 
From men whose brains 

Have had the truth burnt into 'em 
Come over here to tell us, 

Not just talk, 

34 



There'll be some place to switch 'em on 

And help our engine puffin' up the grade. 
Then have some turn-tables along the line 

So if a washout comes, 
Or some one blows a bridge up 'cross a stream 

You just run on and turn the other way 
Instead of standin' like a balky mule 

And starin' at the hole, 
Or worse yet 

Pilin' into it, too proud to yield to facts. 
Then let 'em get a million of those cards, 

The "Do It Now" kind, not the other ones 
I spoke about, 

And give each public servant 
A full deck — 

And joker too, — 
Except it ain't no joke. 

Then when they've fixed this up 
There's one more thing to do. 

Go down into a round-house in the yard, 
The last one, just beyond the old junk pile, 

And there they'll find an engine hid away 
All cylinders and drivin' wheels and things 

To make her hum 
I never knew the names of, 

And up in front two head-lights, 
On the one the letter T, 

And on the other 
R. 

35 



Just steam her up and put her on the rails ; 
Then give her half a chance . 

And watch her go. 
They couldn't use her on the single track,- 

She'd bust into a rear collision sure, — 
And so all that hosspower's gone to waste 

Just like the Merrimac would be 
Without no mills. 

Then when they get those cylinders 
And drivin' wheels 

And hummin' things 
All goin' right 

Perhaps we'll get somewhere. 



36 



AT THE STORE 

There are two stores in our community 

Which serve our daily needs 

In friendly rivalry. 

They don't compete, for both men are too smart 

To swallow whole the economic fallacy 

That one is bound to cut the other's throat 

Because of public policy, 

While the consumer gloats to see the gore; 

Nor yet do they combine 

In secret midnight conference, 

Or at midday repast 

To boost the price to their consumers 

Or lower credit on what comes in trade. 

Both sell their sugar at so much a pound. 

Both take our new-laid eggs at equal price. 

They treat us decent; and it would be well 

If bigger business would adopt their ways. 

One of the stores maintains a tenancy 

In a brick building where in former days, 

Before our civic glory made decline 

And fell, where here made rendezvous 

Courts with their constables, 

When on the village green 

Plumed captains pranced, maneuvering their men, 

A printing office typed the newsy sheet; 

Then stoves became the output from its doors, 

But when the ironmaster died, 

37 



His works died with him, and the silent place 
Became the home of spiders and stray cats, 
Until, through some new deal political, 
The post-office changed hands once more. 
And up in Hillsboro 

Post-office means a store, as store means post-office. 
In came the counters, shelves and pigeon-holes; 
A furnace was put in 
Down in the cellar, 

And by that installation, ill conceived, 
The enterprise was frustrate from the start, 
For in the other store there was a stove, 
A little off the center of the floor, 
A stove rotund, on squatty iron legs, 
Of maw capacious, coal devouring; 
A monster of a stove, a fierce retort 
Of conflagration, with some mystic power 
As of magnetic metal to attract 
Near half the town to cuddle by its sides 
O' nights. 

Here sat the Old Guard in accustomed seats, 
Set in accord with ranges found 
By tried experience upon the sanded box 
For salvos of a deadly skilled artillery. 
No mere post-office could compete with this ; 
And so the fire worshippers in our town 
Most all trade here. 

The Baptists, Orthodox and other creeds 
Do business down the street. 
38 



The other night a man came in the store 

To buy some bacon. 

That starts up a tongue. — 

"Jim Williams killed his pig the other day" — 

A silence — in respect to the deceased — 

And then, "How long'd he had him? 'Bout four 

years ?" 
"Full that; I don't know but it's goin' five." 
"Well, what'd he think that he was waitin' for? 
Still pork's gone up like thunder since the war; 
But seein's he's been boarding him so long 
I don't believe- he'd come out square at that." 
"I asked him why, myself, last fall, 
And he 

Said, if he was goin' to keep a pig 
He might as well keep that one, seein's how 
He had him for so long and knew his ways." 
Another man came in. 
"Hello," said he. 
The Old Guard grunted. 
"Hello, yourself," said one. 
"How many trout d'you ketch last Sunday up the 

brook 
Before the minister ketched you?" 
Homeric laughter roared, for each man knew 
How caught red handed with a dangling trout 
The gentle angler had been herded home, 
He in his Ford, the parson in his team, 
Like sleuth-hound on the track of panting deer, 
39 



Keeping his quarry under frowning gaze 
Until he reached the entrance to his yard. 
He made defence. 
"Huh! I just waited round 

Until the bell began to ring, and then went up again 
And started in where I left off 
And got six good ones before milkin' time." 
"He couldn't have done nothin', anyhow," 
From one Old Guard. 

"Well, I don't know, he might ha' made com- 
plaint," 
Another veteran spoke. 
"He'd had to have a warrant to arrest." 
"It warn't his business, anyhow's I see." 
And then in common wrangle all joined in, 
Afire with theology and law. 
"Is young Hurd goin' to enlist, d'you 'spose?" 
"He says he would, but thinks he hadn't ought, 
Seein' his mother's a dependent on him now." 
Contemptuously one of the listeners spat. 
"Dependent! Hell! ! 

He got five dollars from her six months back, 
And hasn't paid it yet. 

If she's dependin' upon that, she'll starve to death, 
War or no war." 

At the dread word, a gray haired man hunched up 
A little higher in his council seat. 
"Well, I don't know," said he, 
"As I'd enlist myself. I done it once, 
40 



And glad to, and almost any time 
These last three years or so 
I'd get so God damned mad 
At readin' of the devil's work out there 
In Belgium, or in France, or on the sea, 
Drownin' and murderin', women, kids and all, 
That I'd ha' sailed right in, old as I be, 
Like any decent man if he should see 
Some woman bein' beat, or child abused. 
But there wa'n't nothin' done 
Towards helpin' those poor folks 
Or tannin' the black hides 
Of those bedevilin' 'em, 

And so when war's declared at last, it seemed 
'S if I'd petered out and wasn't mad at all. 
I 'spose I'd sort 've got all call'used up, 
The time had been so long; and then, besides, 
When you get frettin' about some blame thing 
That ought to be done now, and ain't at all, 
The doin' sort o' peacifies your mind. 
So why fight now, says I, 
When we wa'n't fightin' then? 
What's happened new? 
Nothin's I see, except the President 
Decided that the world must be made safe 
For Democrats. 
So we're to fight for that. 
By thunder! I remember times 
When they weren't safe round here: 
41 



No more were Copperheads; 

But last election time they won the state 

By fifty-four — or was it fifty-six — 

And now they want the earth. 

I'll bet Cy Sulloway is glad he's dead 

Before he had to vote for such a war 

And send the boys across the sea to fight 

To hold down Henry Hollis on his job ; 

And I can't seem to get my dander up 

To where it was. There's one thing, though, 

This war for Democrats might bring about 

I'd like to see. 

They won't send our Colonel out ; 

Let 'em send theirs, the old he coon 

Of the kaboodle of 'em ; 

Put Colonel William Bryan on the firing line 

And see how well he'd run." 

"Better'n he ever did at home, I guess." 

And no one said the speaker nay. 

The keeper of the store just then appeared, 

A pan of ginger cookies in his hand. 

One of the Council pulled up a wooden box 

Into their midst to hold the offering. 

"How many tonics do you fellows want? 

There's sa'saparilla ; all the ginger's gone." 

"It's my turn, Al;" 

"All right," the merchant said, 

And counting noses, went out to the shed. 



42 



THE MILKMAN 

My neighbor up the road keeps cows. 
He used to think 
That they kept him 
Until one night down at the Grange 
He heard the County Agent talk 
In terms statistical 
Of protein, 
And fats, 
And carbohydrates, 

With mystic charts beruled in deadly parallels 
Of costs and credits, ratios, averages, 
And now he's not so sure. 
But there are the cows, 

Chewing their drowsy cuds with minds at ease, 
Fast-stanchioned in the barn, 
All unconcerned as to the clashing claims 
And traffickings 
Producers, 
Transport, 
And distributors 
Evolve, 

And pass on up to him 
Who sups and pays. 
And there's the rut he's trod 
From kitchen door to barn 
Since boyhood days, 

And there's the contract signed * 

43 



Still operative, 
Whereby he's bound 

To stand and deliver at the morning train 
And having there passed title to his goods 
Pay freightage on them to the market place 
As if they still were his. 
So, though a look has come into his eyes 
As of one wondering 
Whether he ran a farm 
Or a philanthropy, 

My neighbor up the road keeps cows. 
The other night he went to get his mail 
And opening a letter put in hand 
Perused a moment, 
Then beamed smilingly, 
And generous to share good news 
Burst out: — 

"Well now, that ain't so bad. 
The Company's sent word 
That owin' to the war 
They're goin' to raise the price they pay 
A cent a quart 
Come first the month. 
It comes in handy, too, just now; 
Somehow or other cash is kind o' scarce 
These days. 

If war can help a feller out like that 
I guess it ain't so bad." 

The station agent heard the words and smiled. 
44 



"Oh, by the way," he said. 
"Owing to the war 

They're going to raise the tariff rate on milk 
A cent a can 
Come first the month. 
The notice came to-day." 
My neighbor pondered. 
"Well, that's seven cents 
Still to the good: 
I guess I'll shove the cows 
A little harder while the price is up 
And take some feed 'long back with me to-night. 
About six bags, Al; 
That'll do for now." 
"Oh, by the way," 
The merchant made reply, 
"Owing to the war 
Stock feed's up to three-fifty 
Since last week." 

Again my neighbor pondered at the news 
In mental struggle 
Arithmetical ; 

Then tearing into scattered paper scraps 
The futile message of beneficence 
He turned to go. 
"I guess we'll let the cows 
Keep on the way they be. 
Say, fellers, ain't this war 
Just Hell?" 

45 



AN AGED MAN 

An aged man lives near my house 
Up here in Hillsboro, 
A lonely man with neither wife nor child. 
He lives more with his memories 
Than with the world, 
For neighbors are not near 
And well nigh all his kin 
Have left their farms and moved 
Down back of the white church 
That fronts the green. 
When he was born his father too 
Might have been called 
An aged man, 
And likewise before him 
His father's father came to parenthood 
When most men of those fruitful days 
Looked to their grandsons rather than their sons 
To keep their memory green 
And by their lives maintain 
That earthly immortality of self 
To which men cling 
All prophecy and deaconed text apart. 
And so it came about 
That these three lives became a chain 
Which linked the nation's present with the past 
When nation it was not, 
But scattered, scant communities 
46 



Clinging like limpets to the rockbound coast 
Or palisaded in the backwoods wilderness 
Against the old time owners of the soil. 
Diverse of custom, race and creed 
They had perforce set up 
A jealous nagging intercourse 
Among themselves, 
With only common ground 
In their allegiance to the distant realm 
Of which they were a part, 
As colonies, provincial, 
And this a quaking sand 
Except at moments when in fear of death 
And arsons, ravishings and scalping knives 
They lifted up their voices to their King. 
Beneath his shield 
They waxed strong and grew fat. 
Then they discovered that they were not free. 
Thus came the first war 
In those three linked lives, 
And father told to son how when the news 
That Prescott needed men down by the Charles 
Was borne to Hillsboro, 
John Stark stood up in eager leadership 
And led down Hillsboro's men 
To give their aid. 

He told him how that greatest leader came 
God sent from far Virginia on the day 
When Freedom's need was greatest, 
47 



And how then, godlike he led 
Upon the weary way 

Those bloodstained feet up to the final end. 
He told how when the Hessian raiders came 
Well nigh up to our doors at Bennington, 
John Stark stood up again 
To lead 

Green Mountain boys and Hillsboro men 
Against the hirelings 
Their German prince had sold 
For cannon fodder in an unknown war. 
So these things were passed on. 
Then this man's son told his 
How when the British came 
With fleets and veterans 
To New Orleans 

Old Hickory led down from Tennessee 
His coonskinned riflemen 
Whose volleys flaming from the cotton bales 
Laid low platoons like windrows on the field. 
Then how in '48 when Mexico 
Drew down the nation's wrath 
By Crockett's death and other murderings, 
Burnings and robberies such as have passed by 
No notice taken other than statistics kept 
Or some bizarre demand inanely made, 
Frank Pierce of Hillsboro stood up 
And by sheer force of leadership 
Led forth New England men to foreign war, 
48 



Unsought, unwelcome to their hearts and minds. 
So the son's son had known the living word 
Of all the wars the country then had waged. 
Then he went forth, 
In answer to the call 
Of that great leader of the nation's soul 
Who voiced the cry 

Of Liberty in chains down in the South. 
By his pure spirit got 
Then there were born 
In every village and in every town 
In Hillsboro and throughout the land 
Men fierce to lead upon the chosen path 
As though they bore the cross upon crusade. 
As these first leaders fell 
New men arose 

Inspired by the breath of Lincoln's soul 
To seize the standard stricken hands had loosed 
And bear it through the battle of his cause. 
The aged man who lives near by my house 
Was one of these. 
Thus grandsire, sire and son 
Each fought his country's wars, 
And though there was no other son to go 
Down from the hills into the pit of war 
When Spain unloosed her ancient savagery 
And Freedom starved and died before our doors 
This aged man saw still new leaders rise 
And take their stand in front 
49 



To blaze the way 
And make his roll complete. 
The aged man who lives near by my house 
Is rich in memories but poor in purse. 
An old wartime investment he once made 
Of blood and splintered bone now has to yield 
Most all his income though inadequate. 
But there's a treasure chest, 
And from it, once each year 
He takes a well brushed uniform, 
Dark blue with shining buttons on the breast, 
A black felt hat, wide brimmed with cord of gold, 
A sabre, brazen hiked and its belt, 
And clad in these he musters with his Post, 
To march beneath the flag 
Behind the band. 
This is his day of days. 

Christmas and New Years, Easter, are as naught. 
The Glorious Fourth 
Pales into insignificance 
Despite its flare of rockets and red lights 
Before Memorial Day, when all his memories 
Grow young again, 
And he with them. 

This year he did not march but rode in state ; 
Last year he found he tottered on the way, 
And had to rest and leave his chores undone. 
We talked a while the evening of his day, 
Or rather he talked, for the memories 
50 



Refreshed by what had been 

Sought shape in words and forth they came 

For me to listen to. 

He spoke of wars, 

His grandsire's, 

His father's 

And his own, 

With keen reflections and comparisons. 

And then he said: 

"Why, when they called for men in '61 

A feller here in town was on the job 

A-puttin' that tin roof up on the ell 

That's on that house of yours. 

He'd just begun and had to see it through, 

But he got frettin' so up on the stage 

The young lad helpin' with him got afeared 

He'd break his neck, his mind was that upset, 

And when he got the flashin' fixed up tight — 

I guess it's tight now, ain't it — well, that's good — 

He just come down that ladder on the run 

And legged it to the clerk to take his name. 

Somehow I ain't seen no one comin' down 

Off any ladders like that feller did, 

And there's some shinglin' goin' on in town 

This spring though shingles is so awful high. 

But I have noticed this 

In this here war, — 

I don't hear no one holler 

'Come' ; 

51 



It's all 'Must go.' 

Oh, yes, I know; 

He said it. 

And when he showed his teeth 

He got a bit shoved in 'em quick enough. 

Where are the leaders anyhow, 

The men the people know, 

To take the boys across the sea! 

Land sakes, that's where the war is; 

Thank the Lord 

It ain't round here as yet a while." 

I thought a moment and then queried, 

"Washington?" 

"I s'pose so, but the trouble is 

'T ain't George," 

Said he. 



52 



THE PHRASEMAKERS 

I'm tired of these phrasemakers at war, 

The pedagogues and pacifists who preach 

And blow their chilly breath, much better saved 

To cool their porridge with, 

On the fierce fires of a nation's wrath 

Which seeks for retribution, 

Eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth, 

That plain old-fashioned justice may be done. 

That is the reason why the nation fights, 

And while the man behind the desk evolves 

Some subtle sophistry that will not shock 

The long-eared listeners still of the elect, 

The man behind the gun expounds the ancient text 

In common speech of short and ugly words. 

If phrases there must be, 

Then let them be of war, 

And such as warriors use when in a righteous 

cause 
Their straining hearts speak out and set aflame 
Their listeners with fires like their own. 
No philosophic cant, no soft solicitude 
For those in arms arrayed against that cause, 
No speculative social maxim serves 
To voice a nation's war cry for the fray. 
We love our brothers as ourselves 
Won't do. Rome knew and cried 
Carthage must be destroyed, and so it was. 
53 



But let there be no phrases now 

Of Peace 

Until the nation knows there has been War 

And borne and won its crosses on the field. 

When that time comes "Let there be Peace" 

Will cover all the ground, just Pea*"* 

With no new frills. 

"Peace without victory?" 

Up here in Hillsboro 

"Holes without doughnuts" would ring just as 

true 
And smack as sweetly on the tasteless tongue. 
Peace without victory means their kind of Peace, 
Not ours, and that means 
We're licked before we're even started in, 
And asking for it, 
For war is but the aim 

To jam your will right down another's throat, 
With such bicuspids and the like that bar the way 
Until he swallows it. 
A "Peace with Justice" is foretold. 
Not without Victory, and Victory with wings. 
But why, unless we pattern on our foe 
In mock of justice, righteousness and law 
Do we protest so much and that so soon 
That we alone are just before the cause is tried? 
Pray, fight on to victory, then Peace. 
That is the order of a war; 
So let us hitch our war horse on before 
54 



Our chariot, not tie it to the tail. 
Withal, the phrasemakers are valiant men 
And first of all bear wounds in this their war, 
For every time the winged words go forth, 
Some fragment comes a-boomeranging back 
And hits 'em in the eye. 



55 



MR. HOOVER 

I'm glad that Hoover is a man with fat. 

No lean and hungry Cassius would suffice 

As arbiter of our internal needs: 

He'd lack simpatica. 

A plump man knows 

That mice will fatten 

Where the lion starves, 

And be more lenient to needed nourishment 

Than would a meagre man. 

I'm glad, too, that he is a man who laughs 
In spite of all the piteous things he's seen. 
He wept for them: 
Now let him laugh with us 
Until we laugh away 

The sordid scares and panics and hysterias 
The glum-faced statisticians spread abroad, 
And learn how paltry is the sacrifice 
Of cherished savors from our pots and pans. 
A titbit that we do without 
Perchance may be the only bit we do. 
Nor is it an accepted sacrifice 
To share one's daily bread with hungry men, 
So let us laugh that ever we thought thus. 
No one shall starve so long as Hillsboro hoes 
Can flashing rise in air, 
As did the stout broadswords 
56 



At Londonderry overseas erstwhile, 

And as they flash 

They send from hill to hill, 

From hill to plain and then across the land 

The message that the fight is being won. 

So hold you to your faith, for there shall be 

Your daily bread 

And theirs. 

Now what a hoover is I do not know, 

But by presumption he is one who hooves; 

But what it is to hoove I do not know, 

Nor can I find 

Elucidation in my new Britannica, 

On India paper and that sort of thing, 

But something tells me that the word must mean 

To act with energy, efficiency, 

And kindliness. 

So let us place, like bronze upon a monument 

To our plump, laughing fellow-citizen, 

This word among those used in daily speech: 

That, when our daughter's daughter tells with 

pride 
How much she's hooved that day 
We'll know just what she means. 
There's one thing quite in line with the campaign 
I hope he'll do. 

'Twould help conserve the food if we're to live 
And take the sting from death if we're to die, 
57 



First let him cause to register 

All those of either sex and every age 

Who come to breakfast mornings with a grouch 

And say their coffee is too hot or cold, 

Then sniff the cream as if in search of taint, 

Making one's own well-savored brew suspect. 

Then those whose beef is always too much done 

Or yet too rare, or cut too thick or thin ; 

Too something anyway. 

Then those who can't eat this and don't like that 

That's set before them for a peaceful meal, 

But order special dishes from the cook, 

Who's on the verge of leaving as it is. 

Then those who sit at table with proud talk 

Of dietetic ailments, symptoms new 

And organs out of tune 

Until you feel you know 

Their inwards better than the outward self. 

Then, having commandeered a ship, 

Let them embark for one of those new isles 

We've lately purchased in the southern seas 

Where fresh health-bread-fruit grows upon the 

trees, 
Bananas, mangoes, cocoanuts galore, 
And juicy pineapples beneath the palms. 
There let them feast as Eve and Adam did 
Until replete, they sleep, 
And then 

Sink that fair isle beneath the rippling waves. 
58 



THE MINISTERS 

The roaring furnaces of War 

Burn out the dross 
From men and nations, 

And the metal, 
Cleansed, 

Pours into new-cast moulds, 
While their fierce flames 

Cast on the drab of daily life 
Resolve it into the stark white 

Of Truth, 
Or black, of lies. 

We see that Governments are men 
Who get up, 

Wash 
And go to bed 

Just like ourselves, 
Whether they rule by Grace of God,-- 

Or so they say, — 
In states imperial 

Or as the servants of the people's will— 
Or so they say — 

With louder voices or more stealthy tread 
Than their constituents, 

As in democracies. 
All men, 

Born into place 
Or sitting in place sought, 
59 



Or hangers-on of those with goals attained, 
Thrust by Olympian hand to high estate 

Unsought, — 
Or so they say — 

And grin to hear it said — 
We come to know. 

A nation 
Is the soul 

Of hills and valleys, 
Mountains, plains, 

Whatever is the soil, 
And of the lakes and rivers 

Freshening the soil 
That life may still endure, 

By Grace of God. 
We learn to know 

That when the men in place 
Are national in soul themselves, 

That soul speaks through them, 
Clear throughout the world, 

And when those men are not, 
But sectional, 

Or partisan 
Or subdivided still 

Into a group of egoists, 
There's but a Babel 

Inarticulate. 
Of lesser things 

We learn that we must eat 
60 



To live; 

Some must unlearn that living is to eat, 
And all must learn at last 

We're still alive, 
All unproductive wasters that we are, 

Because some men we know not of 
Have labored in some fields we know not where 

And fed us. 
We paid, 

Three prices, 
But not to those men, 

So now we learn ; 
And they, the oxen treading out the corn 

Stopped treading, 
Many, 

And so we paid the more, 
But still not to those men ; 

And so their sons 
Shied at the yoke which bowed their fathers' headi 

And left the farms, untutored, for the towns, 
To sit in offices 

Or clerk it in the stores, 
Thinking they thought, — 

Though all untaught to think at all, 
Such effort was superior estate 

To laboring two handed on the land. 
Nor were these youths to blame 

That they thought thus. 
Their thinking was done for them. 
61 



They saw their fathers' toil 
Unrecompensed, 

And daily at their schools 
The mind and all its works so deified 

They got ashamed of having any hands. 
School Boards, 

Exalted pedagogues state salaried, 
Prescribed curricula 

With far less purpose than the homely dose 
Of sulphur and molasses 

In the spring, 
Except to "train the mind." 

To teach, — like them — 
Was held up as the goal, 

For it had not been said so all could hear 
That those who can 

Will do, 
And those who can't 

Will teach. 
To teach, no matter what, 

No matter why, 
That was the highest aim: 

In less degree 
Stood occupations clerical 

To do with desk and pen, 
Bookkeeping, making sales 

Of petty merchandise for petty sums. 
These things alone were worthy of the mind. 
Sweat was a vulgar word 
62 



Not in good use, 

And work that made it run 
More vulgar still. 

So on week days 
The teachers set on high 

Their own profession 
As the final word educative, 

And on the Seventh Day 
The ministers 

Reared theirs, 
And harrowed in the seed already sowed. 

They went the pedagogues one better. 
Besides the mind 

The alleged soul of man 
Must have its training, 

And for that 
The ancient texts of languages deceased 

Must be perused. 
They did not understand 

That if the living truth be in a tongue 
It will not die. 

So let both soul and mind be trained 
As theirs had been, 

And there would stand 
An educated man, 

With hands ungrimed — 
And well nigh atrophied. 

Such were the values taught among the farms 
As true ones, 

63 



Not only yesterday 
But still to-day, 

By pedagogues half hanged in tiic red ta;>e 
They spin about themselves 

Like spiders' webs 
And by those men who set themselves apart, 

And there are kept, 
Immaculate 

From knowledge of the facts of life 
As it is lived to-day; 

Not yesterday 
Among the Babylonians, 

Nor yet to-morrow, 
After life is flown. 

Whither, they know not 
From all they may have read 

In cuneiform or script, 
No more than we. 

One of the modern minor prophets wrote 
That God while working up his clay 

First made 
An idiot. 

That was for practice; 
Then reassured He made, like Rogers group, 

A School Board. 
I have a seat on such a board as that 

Up here in Hillsboro 
And splintery it is, 

But we are sitting tight 
64 



And trying to work out 

The right best thing to do 
To help our youngsters on their purposed plans 

If such they have, 
Or turn them to our fields 

If they have not, 
Equipped to till them in full self-respect 

As did their forefathers, 
That they may feed 

The starving ones abroad: 
Send down good food to keep in strength 

Our fighting men who go 
That they shall starve no more; 

Provide for honorable price 
For those who stay at home; 

And now that War 
Has stamped the sterling mark 

On work like this 
We think we'll put it over, 

Though cloistered minds may do 
Their damnedest. 



65 



THE CAMPS 

Where is the rude, licentious soldiery 

Of former days! 
The roisterers and swaggerers who dashed 

Hot foot 
Through some sweet village of the plain 

With barking pistols, 
Flashing blades, 

And plumes astream, 
And having put to rout its garrison 

Made rendezvous 
Before the village inn, 

Chucking the chickens beneath uplifted chins, 
The chickens chuckling to be thus chucked, 

Then crowding round the board with jests and 
shouts, 
"Hola, good host, another stoup of wine!" 

The d'Artagnans, the Hawkwoods, the Dundees, 
The Falstaffs, Zaglobas and Cids; 

Those blood-letters and tosspots of the past; 
Those men with blood as red as the red wine 

They quaffed ; 
Those men we've loved, 

Whose feats in love and war 
First made our infant hearts swell emulate 

In virile rhythmic beat; 
Where is the rude, licentious soldiery 

Of former days! 

66 



Where are the bully boys 

Of former days! 
Those tarry pig-tailed mariners who sailed 

The Seven Seas, 
Blood brothers of Long Tom and Davy Jones, 

Squaring their yards according to the wind 
For fair-haired Hilda 

Of the Skagerrack, 
Or dark-eyed Nita 

Of the Spanish Main, 
And as the sun peered over the yard arm, 

Poured down their thirsty throats 
Their pannikins 

Of fiery grog! 
Those lions of the sea 

Whose rants and roars 
Outvoiced the tumult of the winds and waves; 

Where are the bully boys 
Of former days! 

The d'Artagnans 
One Secretary says 

He has, 
Enrolled, benumbered in red ink, 

Card-catalogued, 
Hog-tied and bound in Gordian red tape. 

The bully boys 
Josephus says 

He has, 

67 



Caged with his taming lions of the sea 

To lap their milk 
And eat out of his hand. 

And both these war lords 
Constantly maintain 

By act official or the spoken word 
Their charges are not fit 

To be at large, 
As though, when putting on 

Their country's uniform, 
They had cast off 

All else 
Save appetites. 

So with the end to save 
The countryside from them, 

Them from themselves, 
Barbed wired camps are planned 

And at each guarded gate 
Signs Janus faced set up 

"You shall not pass," 
Just as was said at Verdun 

To the Huns. 
Within the precincts sanctified 

Movies well censored, 
Soda water stands, 

Chautauquan lecturers on themes of peace 
All pander to the happy warriors 

Sequestered there 
And dissipate their minds 
68 



Of vain carnalities. 
Outside the bounds 

The world still wags. 
It almost seems 

As if a present benefit might come 
If those our war lords would but call to mind 

That legend of the cloistered monk 
Siberian, 

Who, drearied by the life he'd led, 
Burst forth 

With horrid cries 
And — well, a moral's there. 

Now one sees on the screen 
Our d'Artagnan, 

Our hero, Bakerized, 
Strolling along a straight and narrow path, 

Lights shining virginal — 
Not red — 

On either side; 
Sweet Molly Coddle 

Clinging to his strong right arm. 
Grim Mrs. Grundy 

Closing up the rear, 
Seeking a sundae before sound of taps; 

And so to bed. 



69 



THE GARBAGE PAIL 

Instead of keeping Watch upon the Rhine 

As do pur enemies, 
Our good friend Mr. Hoover tells us all 

To Watch the Garbage Pail, 
And so our voices rise 

In choral anthem national. 
I, being bowed with years, 

Flat-footed and bespectacled, 
With mastication turned 

From instinct 
To an art, 

And so debarred from mixing it 
With younger men with bombs and bayonets, 

And yet with spirit keen 
To do my bit, 

Avowed myself to watch 
The one 

The Dei ex-machina Democratica maintain 
In Washington 

Wherein they dump 
Discarded policies too raw to serve 

Upon the people's plate 
As yet; 

Fads, phrases, theories 
Charred and burnt to crisp 

Beneath the flame of Truth; 
Mexican messes mixed and served 
70 



To be spat out again, 
And all things unambrosial 

To their taste. 
I watched, and came the day I saw 

A soldier, 
Brave, loyal, much-beloved, 

Dumped into the brew 
And disappear. 

Defective vision was the whispered uoid. 
His keen eyes saw too far 

Ahead, 
When those who would not see 

Were blind. 
But worse, he told abroad of what he saw 

And broke the new command 
"Thou shalt not tell." 

Next with a mighty splash 
As when 

Into the blue JEgean fell 
The Rhodian colossus, 

Came an ex-President, 
And the cauldron seethed 

And boiled 
Until the lid was clamped 

Fast down 
And sat on by the baker 

Palpitant, 
Whose hands had not the strength 

To knead such dough 
71 



And so made waste of it 

With half of Europe crying for such bread 
As it would make. 

Another day and joined these two 
A third, 

Another soldier, 
Known to all the world 

By works no Pharaoh had dared, 
Canned ! 

I shall still sit 
Up here 

Upon my Hillsboro Hill 
And watch, 

Just as the knitting women watched 
The falling heads 

Beneath the guillotine, 
And as I sit 

I'll think 
What noble company there is 

Inside that pail! 
And I shall wait and see 

What in the end 
Will fill that pail 

And who will fill it. 



72 



THE EXEMPTION BOARDS 

The Squire came up to the house last night 
To sit beneath the elms out in the yard 
And watch the fireflies and stars come out 
Over the orchard just across the wall. 
He likes to hear my tree frogs 
With abodes 

Somewhere aloft up in the whispering leaves, 
Clacking and trilling in their weird discourse, 
And listen to a vagrant whippoorwill 
Who chants our country's war cry 
From the pines. 
So there we sit and smoke 
Our pipes 

When he thus honors me, 
And watch and listen to those things 
And to each other as the thought may move 
To speech. 

Last night a gentle breeze came eddying by- 
Heavy with perfume from the patch of mint 
Beside the kitchen door. 
There are oases in all desert lands 
And when such inspiration wafts 
Straight from the starry skies, 
There's just one thing to do. 
I did it, 

And as the Squire laid 
His clinking frosted glass 
73 



Upon wide arm of chair, 

"That's good," he said, 

And so it was. 

Then in a moment, 

"We got through to-day. 

The draft is drawn 

And those exempt excused. 

Some of those men exempt 

Will stay 

With honor equal to the accolade 

On those who go, 

And some will not. 

Taking it all in all, 

It's been the greatest test 

The Country as a whole 

Has ever had, 

And it has proved 

That flabby, incoherent, as it seemed, 

The Nation has a Soul 

That's all its own, 

Knowing no North nor South 

Nor East nor West, 

For everywhere the acid was laid on 

Pure metal showed 

Magnetic 

To the Stars and Stripes. 

It was a thing I hoped 

But did not know. 

Now I know that 

74 



And I've learned more besides 
These last days I've been handling men's lives 
Like chessmen 
Than all I ever knew 
Before. 

What was our job ; 
To pick and choose 
From those the doctors, 
Having turned away all those 
Diseased, unsound of body or of mind, 
Had certified as fit, 
The fittest 

To do the Country's business 
Abroad, 
And maybe 
Die at it, 

Leaving those same 
Diseased, 
Unsound of body 
Or of mind, 

To do the Country's business 
At home, 
And maybe 
Fatten on it. 
What is the Law ; 
The fittest shall survive; 
And every time I wrote my name 
Made mock of it. 
Now I have lived my life 
75 



Within the law, 
And when I see a hand 
Upraised against it, 
Though the hand be mine, 
My instinct is to strike it down. 
But as I sat with mind disturbed, 
Well nigh rebellious at the things I did 
I came to see 

That such is the law of flesh, 
But that the higher law 
The spirit serves 
Is this, 

That he who has the most 
To give 

Must give the most 
Or stand ignoble. 

But take this matter of the Country's business 
Done as I've said: 
Reduce it down 
To lowest terms 
And some absurdity 
And let's see what we see. 
There are the generous, 
The fittest, 
Going forth 
For war to swallow up. 
Here the self-seekers, 
The lame, halt and blind, 
The morons, criminals, degenerates, 
7 6 



Breeding like rabbits 

With their proper mates 

While thoroughbreds remain 

Unhusbanded. 

And these male derelicts will be 

The voting strength 

To place in office representatives 

Of such as they. 

In Boston, 

When the Legislature sits 

The crier calls upon his God to save 

The Commonwealth. 

So far 

He has, 

But take it there and here and everywhere, 

State capitols and national, 

With Houses filled 

With such a scum 

As would be bound to rise 

From such a broth, — 

I guess He'd have his hands full. 

The draft was called 

Selective 

And the Boards 

Exemption. 

Our phrasemakers went wrong again 

On that. 

The calling many for the chosen few 

Is one thing, 

77 



But Exemption means 
A letting off, 
And not a taking on 
And honor. 
But be that as it may, 
It's done, 
And so well done 
By all those boys and men 
Who came up to the scratch 
When duty called 
I marvel at it, 
For they came 
Undriven, 
And unled. 

Now let us left behind 
Do what we can for them 
To make the Country safe 
While they're away. 
So let the same Boards sit 
And make selective draft 
Of those most fit 
To do the Country's business 
At home 

While they accomplish it 
Abroad. 

Cancel the voting lists 
And let a plague descend 
On parties. 

Then let the Nation's sons and daughters come 
78 



And show cause why they should be deemed of 

worth 
To govern it. 
Yes, I said daughters. 
It's the first time, too, 
And yet for fifty years 
I've known 

My mother knew lots more 
Than I did." 

A falling star swept flaming through the sky. 
"Do you suppose what I just said 
Did that? 

I guess I'd better get along 
Before the heavens fall." 



79 



THE JUDGES 

A man built him a house of logs 

And in the clearing that he made 
He planted corn, 

And while he hunted for their meat 
His wife and children tended it. 

Then other men 
Came hewing through the wilderness 

And built their houses near at hand 
Until a scattered settlement took shape 

And thoughts of common welfare came to mind. 
They built a mill to grind their corn to meal 

And saw the great pine logs 
To timbers and wide boards 

So clean of knot and rot 
They seemed like parchment surfaces. 

The man most reverend 
And learned in the Book 

They made their pastor; 
The most valiant man 

They made their captain, 
And the wisest man in life and law 

They made their magistrate, 
And in him sat 

The law they willed to serve. 

So with the common weal thus organized 

Their doings prospered. 
The clearings turned to fields with waving wheat 
80 



Where once the corn 
Hilled in among the blackened stumps 

Had rustled in the wind, 
And woolly sheep and cows with calves 

Fed where the an tiered stag had browsed. 
Their wealth increased in goods, 

And of their lands 
The bounds and monuments 

Once indeterminate, 
Became of moment, for entitlement 

To present use or ultimate descent; 
So new surveys were made, 

Lines run and scraps of paper signed 
In covenant of rights established there 

Between man and his neighbor man. 
With new assurance new endeavor came. 

Young fruit trees were set out, 
White with sweet blossoms for the humming bees. 

New fields were plowed, 
Wet meadow lands were drained 

For hay and pasture for the flocks and herds 
And sturdy horses they had learned to rear. 

Men's eyes grow envious as they behold such 
things 
That are not theirs. 

One summer night 
An envious man 

Of violence and craft 
Arose and entered on the acreage 
81 



That joined his own, 
An orchard of young trees about to bear, 

Upon a slope with outcrop in a ledge 
His mind obsessed with greed opined 

Held precious mineral. 
There sat him down with loaded gun in hand, 

And when his neighbor came 
Declared the land was his. 

It lay beneath the sun ; the harvest was assured ; 
His own bounds were outgrown; 

He wanted it; 
Therefore 'twas his, 

And threatening with his piece 
He thrust the owner from the land 

He'd worked and toiled for. 
The magistrate arrived with record in his hand 

Showing the metes and bounds set up 
By covenants recorded, 

But the envious man 
Laid hands upon the proffered document 

And tore it up, 
And spit upon the fragments on the ground, 

And shouted God would this and God would 
that 
Before he'd yield the land. 

Then to the captain went the magistrate, 
And to the man of wrath the captain went, 

Up to the very muzzle of the gun 
That belched into his face, 
82 



But all unscathed, 
The captain smote the man, 

And knocked him down 
And mastered him, 

Struggling and biting like a rat 
Within that stalwart grip. 

And then the captain brought him to the place 
Of common gathering 

And sent out the word 
That every man with lands should gather there 

Forthwith, and likewise there be brought 
The wife and child of the unrighteous man 

To look upon him sitting in his bonds 
And hear what might be said 

As to his deeds. 
Together came those men, well armed. 

Up rose the captain with the man of law 
Beside him, giving countenance 

And earnest of the law 
To what was to be done. 

And then the captain spoke and said: 
"You men of Hillsboro are now a court; 

Not a court martial for there is no war. 
I have made peace with this right hand of mine 

And stopped the envious war 
This man here had declared against us all, 

Threatening our lives unless our lands be his, 
For as such do to one they do to all. 

There's no end to it when it once begins. 
83 



But as a court of peace and equity 

You sit, 
And now the question is for your decree 

What shall be done with this man tethered here 
Who knows not how to give 

I2ut only fierce to take 
From those more weak and needful than himself. 

We've known his works and ways 
As he has lived among us, 

Unloved, unneighbored, but were unsuspect 
Such violence and greed 

Were in him till to-day. 
But now this day has come and well it came 

Before the mind diseased 
With covetous imaginings, 

Lust for possession and his envious greed 
Had made him strong as men insane are strong 

And I'd not handled him. 
And let not this day end 

Until we're done with him 
For good and all, 

That lives and lands be safe 
And peace be kept among us. 

So now do you consult, then speak your will." 
Then rose the pastor from his place. 

"It is our will 
That this man be outcast 

From our community. 
There's no communion with him 
84 



For the bread and wine 
Have never touched his lips. 

There shall be paid to him 
Just value for his land 

And for the buildings he has raised 
Upon it, 

And for such goods of his 
As are not moveable. 

Then with his cattle let him go his way 
Into the further wilderness, 

And there, 
Where tooth and nail establish right and law, 

Among his fellow beasts let him contend 
As with his kind. 

His wife and child may follow if they will 
Or dwell with us and from the common wealth 

Be here maintained as need may be 
As they may choose." 

The magistrate took down the fateful words, 
And then the captain, bending down, 

Unloosed the cords which bound the banished 
man. 
"Stand up; 

Now go," he said, 
"Accounting will be made." 

The man stood up with curses in his eyes. 
"Come, woman." 

The young wife shrank away 
With face averted. 

85 



"Come, you," he spoke again. 
The little child 

Gazed at the naked soul of him whom she had 
called 
Her father, 

And said, "I am afraid." 



86 



W 19 







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